


Five Times Solo Fell Asleep in Weird Places

by Hel be praised (Silvertounge)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sleepiness, Slow Build, Trust, weird courting rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertounge/pseuds/Hel%20be%20praised
Summary: Ilya is continuously finding Solo half asleep in interesting places around their team's shared apartment. He's not sure what to do with the other man but knows that he has to keep the Cowboy safe when he's incapacitated.





	1. The Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> This started from a weird headcanon my friend has that Solo has learned not to trust anyone and can only fall asleep around people he trusts. I also missed the 5+ 1 fics so much that I made one of my own.

Ilya couldn't decide what was more interesting: the fact that Solo was asleep in the kitchen or the fact that he was actually asleep _on_ his feet. Right before him, snoring gently in the still evening air, Solo was slumped over the kitchen counter more asleep than Ilya had ever seen him.

Not that Ilya could recall having ever actually seen Solo sleep. Even after missions when everyone else took advantage of long plane rides and endless car journeys Solo was always wide awake ready to talk everyone’s ear off.

It was strange, but Ilya had readily accepted it as another quirk the American had. Solo didn’t sleep in front of anyone.  Just as he always tied his ties in a half-Windsor no matter what suit he wore, just like he always stayed a half step behind others when walking.

They were all just quirks Solo had.

Ilya meant to wake Solo up right away, but he couldn’t help but stay and watch the other man silently. There was something that felt thrillingly voyeuristic about watching Solo in such an unguarded moment. There was no one there to watch his back, no one there to stop Ilya if he decided to end the other man then and there.

It was odd to see Solo so still. He was always moving around in some way or another always finding something new to bake or steal or wear. Ilya sometimes wondered how the American had such energy to do so many different things, while the rest of them lazed about the apartment waiting for missions.

A door closing softly down the hall started him; he didn’t want to wake Solo if he was truly asleep, but Gabby would be in soon and Ilya had a feeling that Solo wouldn’t appreciate being seen like this.  

Ilya was also fairly certain that sleeping with one’s neck at such a horrific angle was bound to hurt later.

“Cowboy,” his hand nearly swallowed the other man’s shoulder as he gently shook it, “time to wake up Cowboy.”

Blue eyes blinked open dazedly; Ilya could barely make out the odd spot of brown that stained the top of Solo’s left eye for how low his eyelids stayed.

He shook him again this time with more amusement than caution, “Come on Cowboy. We wake up now.”

“P’r’l?”

Ilya watched with blatantly open amusement as Solo’s mouth tried to form his annoying little nickname and failed. He shook his head in mock disappointment at the other man, “Come, Cowboy, this is no place to be sleeping, yes? I think you are quite a mess right now.”

Ilya helped guide him up off the counter and was more than a little surprised when, instead of following him, the other man leaned heavily into him. Ilya could smell the subtle scent of Solo’s unimaginably expensive cologne, could see the soft strands of his hair pressed against his throat, could feel the slow rise and fall of Solo’s chest pressed into his side.

He instinctively wrapped an arm around the other man to support him, keeping Solo’s smaller frame pressed firmly to his own taller one. The moment was intimate in a comforting way, he was surprised at how natural it felt to hold Solo in this way when he was so vulnerable.

Ilya looked down the hallway for any sign of Gabby or Waverly and seeing none, hoisted the Cowboy into his arms carefully and walked him to his room. It felt wrong to leave Solo out in the open when the man barely slept as it was. Such an action seemed to Ilya almost a betrayal of trust, and the very idea of anyone else seeing this man in such a vulnerable state made Ilya’s heart race uncomfortably with an emotion he didn’t want to bother pinpointing.

If they were to be friends, if they were to truly be partners: Ilya had to keep Solo safe and make sure that he took care of himself.  

He got the other man into his bed without incident and knelt at the end to unlace his unpractical, expensive shoes. He held the things in his hands and resisted the urge to throw them to a corner, for whatever reason Solo cared about his clothing, Ilya placed them neatly at the foot of the bed and forwent disrobing the Cowboy any further.

Sleeping in a suit never hurt anyone and taking off the sleeping man’s shoes had felt so discomfortingly intimate that Ilya felt anything more would have been inappropriate.

He stayed for just a moment more, before exiting the room and leaving Solo to rest.


	2. The Floor

Ilya had been outside jogging around London for the past hour. The fading light made the city seem much less dirty and small to him. It felt odd, considering how Moscow was, to see so many needless shops and so many people walking around in unnecessary finery. They all looked happy enough, but the unfamiliar atmosphere made him long for the simplicity of his home. He wasn’t naive enough to think that everyone in Russia was comfortable or happy, just as he wasn’t stupid enough to question the quiet comfortable existence he’d been afforded there.

He made it back to the apartment just after nightfall, panting softly in the doorway as he stripped off his dirty shoes and placed them next to the opulent rows of shoes Gabby and Solo kept lined up at the door.

“Cowboy?” He turned his head toward the rest of the house, searching the dim light for any sign of the other man. The apartment was completely bereft of any sign of life, try as he might he couldn’t hear any noise coming from the other man.

Ilya rolled his neck slowly, stretching his shoulders back as he worked his way into the house. He felt no stirrings of panic, and the apartment seemed just as orderly as it was when he’d left hours earlier. There was no reason to think anything had happened to the other man, and so there was no reason for Ilya to concern himself.

He made himself a quick dinner, eating it over the sink without Solo there to scold him about proper manners, before washing it down with cold tap water. Ilya thought about going to bed, but the jog had invigorated him. If he tried to sleep now he would stare up at his ceiling and become annoyed with it.

Blue eyes searched the house one more time to make sure he was truly alone, he waited a couple moments in absolute silence before making his way to the living room with the intent of challenging himself to a game of chess.

The dim light of the living room had made it even more difficult than normal to spot him, in fact, Ilya had nearly found Solo with a foot to the ribs.  The other man was curled up on the floor, a sleeping ball of horribly tired American with a plate of food and an open book near him. Ilya couldn’t tell if he’d fallen to the floor or not but it was oddly endearing to see the other man like this.

Ilya forced back the swelling of emotion that built up in his chest whenever he looked at Solo. He sat on the couch quietly and pulled the small table that held his chessboard over with the absolute intent to play a round before he was inevitably interrupted.

Every time he moved he could see Solo’s still form behind his pieces and before long he was paying more attention to the other man than his game.

Ilya contemplated waking him up and making him go to his room; if Solo was gone then Ilya could play in peace. He reached out to tap Solo’s shoulder but stopped just short of touching him. There was no one else in the apartment. Gabby was gone and Solo didn't look uncomfortable. Ilya warred with himself over what to do: play his game or leave Solo to sleep?

Eventually, much quicker than he’d ever admit, he decided to just leave Solo to rest. If he was tired enough to fall asleep on the floor then Ilya would just let him sleep until he woke up.

The silence of apartment was peaceful in a way he’d never known before and the sight of his partner sleeping without worry made his chest warm. Even if he missed out on chess, he felt that he’d chosen the best possible option.

If Ilya stayed for hours watching the slow rise and fall of Solo’s chest no one really needed to know.


	3. The Coat Closet

It was at this point that Ilya suspected all of this was some elaborate hoax that Solo was perpetuating against him. He’d gone from thinking the man never slept to finding him asleep in every odd little corner of the apartment that could be slept in.

Ilya had come back from a short shopping trip—he’d never seen so many books available for sale in his life, and even if he couldn’t find any in Russian he could enjoy them in English—and had tried to hang his winter coat up when he’d nearly stepped on Solo asleep, on a pile of fallen jackets, _in the coat closet_.

So yes, this was either a hoax or something that was becoming an unreasonably bad habit for Solo.

He fought back rumbles of laughter and silently questioned how the hell someone could fall asleep in a closet? When did Solo actually sleep in his own bed? At this point, Ilya could readily imagine that Solo’s bed was missing (even though he’d put Solo in it himself once before) and he was just too afraid of Waverly to ask for a new one.

Ilya shook his head fondly at the sleeping man. For all that Solo was a dangerous, well-trained agent he looked like a child hiding away from punishment. His normally perfect dark hair was sticking up at all angles and pressed against his face in gentle little cowlicks. Ilya ran his eyes over the dark lashes resting still against the sharp lines of his cheek, down to the soft curve of the other man’s, frankly, tempting lips.

“Cowboy,” He knelt down and dared to run his fingers through those messy locks, delighted in finally knowing how soft Solo’s hair was, “Cowboy what are you doing here?” Solo stirred a bit, bright eyes blinking open slowly to fixate on Ilya’s face before the other man languidly nuzzled his head into Ilya’s palm in an affectionate gesture that left Ilya oddly breathless.

He had the brief, cautious thought that the other man was trusting him with too much. Especially since Solo had seen the things Ilya had been forced to do with his hands in this lifetime.

“P’r’l?”

Again the bastardization of his horrible nickname, this time the word brought forth an accompanying feeling of devotion that he’d never noticed before.

“Why are you in coat closet cowboy?”

Solo stretched lazily, his chest brushed lightly against Ilya’s as he sat up, “I was trying to escape Gabby’s insistence that I take her shopping.”

“Cowboy,” Ilya sat back on his heels, “I thought you love shopping.”

He threw Ilya an exasperated look, “Not with Gabby I don’t.”

Ilya could easily accept that as fact, especially after the disastrous outfits Solo had picked out for Gabby their first mission in Italy. He moved back to allow Solo to rise to his feet, and this time found himself looking up at the other man.

“How is it,” he licked his lips, instantly noticing that Solo fixated on the motion, “you ended up _asleep_ in coat closet then?”

“Obviously it took a while for her to give up, Peril.”

There wasn’t enough spaced in the closed off closet for the both of them, Solo’s stomach was practically pressed against Ilya’s cheek and every he took a breath his chest brushed the fabric of Solo’s expensive suit. The air between them crackled and warmed with something that, for once, Ilya was more than ready to acknowledge. He’d gone so long without being allowed to want anything for himself, and now that he could Ilya found himself feeling exceptionally greedy.

There was a question in Solo’s eyes that Ilya must have answered with his own because Solo didn’t hesitate to slide his palm along the sharp line of Ilya’s jaw. Solo’s fingers were firm against Ilya’s skin and he let his eyes flutter shut, giving himself over to the situation and the man above him.

Ilya could hear the whispering brush of fabric as Solo bent toward him, face hovering over Ilya’s. He could feel the heat of the other man’s breath and the barest brush of his lips against—

“Just what the hell are you two doing in there?!”

The rough bang of a fist against the door startled Ilya so badly that he fell back into the door roughly, knocking it open to leave him laying on the floor at Gabby’s feet.  

A crushing feeling of loss gripped his lungs, even as the feeling of being exposed caused his expression to shutter off to utter blankness. He’d wanted something for himself and this is what he got for it: Gabby’s judgmental gaze and the consuming feeling of anger at having been kept from it.

Ilya grit his teeth together against the shame and anger bubbling in his chest, his finger tapping wildly against his palm as he stood up, “Cowboy lost something. I try to help him find it.”

“With the door shut? In the coat closet?”

“Gabby,” Any hint of languid sleepiness was gone from Solo and in his frame, Ilya could detect the same sort of tethered rage, “people shut doors all the time. No need to get so frantic.”

She looked between them, dark eyes finding nothing, “Whatever you say then.” Her airy dismissal placated neither of them, “Come on then Solo, I’m in need of new gowns and we don’t have all night.”

“Of course.” Solo’s smile was so plastic and fake. Ilya marveled at the fact that it didn’t crack and break on his face, “Just give me a moment to get ready and we’ll go.”

Gabby flounced off easily and as she left Solo’s smile fell off his face into nothingness. His eyes, full of frustration and impotent regret, met Ilya’s for a brief moment.

He took Ilya’s hand in his gently, soothed over Ilya’s fingers with his until his own fingers were still. Ilya stared at his hand framed in Solo’s smaller and dared to wrap his finger’s around the other’s.

Solo let out a sigh full of emotion Ilya couldn’t decipher, squeezed Ilya’s fingers once, then walked away to join Gabby.


	4. Ilya's Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say that there are some mentions of violence and torture in this chapter. There's nothing very graphic, but I feel like it should be mentioned.

The frantic panic that he’d foolishly let set in came to a grinding halt at the sight of Solo curled up like a child in his chair. He wasn't even surprised at Solo’s ability to find the most unconventional places to sleep anymore. Realistically speaking the comfy chair Ilya had set up in his room for reading wasn't nearly as odd of a surprise as the coat closet had been. At least Solo was in a room and close to an actual bed this time around.

He leaned against the frame of his door, muscles slowly uncoiling from the tenseness he’d been holding in them the entire time he’d been searching for Solo. All of them had been searching for hours; they (even Gabby) were worried about where Solo could have gone after the spectacular cluster fuck that was their last mission.

Ilya knew that Solo had never killed a civilian before, had never been asked to pull in a calm breath and snatch the life from someone barely old enough to know what they would be missing in death. Solo had ever been asked to kill someone for the greater good of an entire city, had never played with the balancing act of hundreds of thousands of lives stacked heavily against one.  

None of them had come out clean. Gabby had been captured and tortured for the first time, Waverly had ordered the bombing of a building full of people who hadn't meant to be there in the wrong place at the worst time, and Ilya had choked the life out of a man begging to see his children one more time.

When they’d finally caught up to the man they’d been pursing—they were bloody and beat up; barely fit for this type of task—he’d taken a young woman, barely more than a child, as a shield.  

Then it had come time for Solo’s part in all of this mess, and he had been tasked with ending the man they pursued. Every situation had an infinite number of possible outcomes; choices and actions lead the players down to a very specific ending and, in this case, they’d stumbled upon the worst possible one.

They’d asked Solo to shoot (it was for the greater good wasn’t it?) and Solo had complied, shot straight and true; he’d ended two lives before disappearing into the chaos of a city under attack.

Ilya looked down at his own hands and saw how steady they were even in the aftermath of so much death. He’d killed and maimed and hurt and threatened countless people for a government he barely had faith in with his hands. Ilya almost couldn’t remember a time when killing someone would have left him so grieved.

There was no black and white in their job and the profession they’d all ended up in left no one untouched.

Ilya pulled Solo into his arms gently, careful not to wake him. He cradled Solo in his arms stroking the messy strands of dark hair clinging to his face, murmuring things in Russian he didn’t know how to voice in any other language.

As long as he was able, Ilya would never let another decision like that fall on Solo. He begged fate, or maybe the universe: let him be the killer, let him murder and break without hesitation; just leave Solo out of it.

Everyone had their own wounds to lick, he knew that, eventually, Waverly would take care fo Gabby, and so Ilya would take care of Solo.

Even if Solo didn't ask him to.


	5. The Balcony

The sun was setting slowly over the endless horizon, casting shadows about the little balcony attached to their shared apartment.

Swirling beams of orange, and pink, and red touched everything in sight, bounced off the ground and shone beautifully in Solo’s dark hair.

The two of them had been sitting together all evening, out on the balcony enjoying the temperate weather and the easy flow of conversation that had become so commonplace between them.

Ilya knew, if he wanted to, that he could have leaned forward at any moment and traced the beams of light reflecting off Solo’s neatly kept hair, knew he could have run his fingers over the exposed skin between Solo’s watch and sleeve.

Ilya did none of those things. He had a feeling, something born of instinct trained into him from a young age, that something was changing between him and the Cowboy. With every backward glance and brush of their shoulders, Ilya knew he could have rushed it along, but he chose to savor it instead. To revel in the tension and warmth growing between the two of them.

He had so rarely had nice things in his life. Everything he owned served a purpose, every relationship he’d cultivated had been for a specific reason. Ilya had hidden inside himself for so long that he hardly knew who he was anymore.

Maybe Solo would help him find out.

He watched the other man—Solo had drifted off to sleep as they’d talked—and allowed himself to take in his fill of Solo’s still form. Allowed himself the luxury of admiration.

Loving anyone was dangerous but allowing himself to love another man was suicidal. Unless Waverly allowed him to remain here, outside of Russia, forever this love would inevitably lead to Ilya’s downfall.

What a sweet downfall it would be though.

He dared to brush the backs of his fingers against Solo’s cheek and take in the warmth of his skin. The disastrous effects of the last mission were far behind them, and in the past couple of weeks, Ilya had seen Solo slowly morph back into his old self.

He was almost daring enough to press a chaste kiss to the soft curve of Solo's slack lips but decided that such a gesture was better spent when the other man was awake. When Ilya kissed Solo he wanted him to be completely aware of it.

The wind whipped past them gently, drawing Solo’s hair from its perfectly brushed state. He watched a little curl of hair fall into other man’s eyes, smiled as Solo curled in tighter on himself against the cold.

The fact that Solo would even willingly fall asleep around him astounded Ilya. He was only good for killing and pain, everything gentle about him had been meticulously stripped away over the years until a wire shell of a man remained.

And still Solo allowed him these gentle moments.

Ilya had already accepted that Solo also knew about the changes between them. He told Ilya of his affection in the way he made their food in the morning, in the way his bright eyes lingered just too long on Ilya’s face every time Ilya left, in the way his fingers would find excuses to find Ilya’s whenever he could.

Eventually they would reach a tipping point. Eventually they would find the end of their patience and define whatever it was creeping between them like vines.

For now Ilya was content to watch the sun set against Solo’s skin, to watch the other man sleep and marvel at whatever chance of fate had allowed him the privilege of being the one to stand guard over Solo in his most vulnerable moments.  


	6. +1 Ilya's Bed

The give and take of their flesh melding together was utterly intoxicating in the blanket of darkness provided by the curtains Ilya had put in soon after the team had moved into their spacious London apartment.

The soft, desperate sounds Solo made echoed low in Ilya’s ears, they pitched higher and higher with every rock of his hips, became breathy every time he ground against the other man violently.

Ilya’s teeth found the rim of Solo’s ear, dragged against it until the room was full of his gasps and desperate pleas.

He chuckled lowly, feeling exceptionally mean as he pulled the other man’s head back roughly, attacking the exposed flesh with rough little nips and kisses until he could see clearly, in blooming bruises, the path he had taken from jaw to collar. 

“Mmm,” Ilya dragged his tongue over the other man’s pulse slowly, “Don’t be too eager Napoleon. I promise the best will come.”

A low groan followed by a strangled laugh caught his attention and he looked up quickly, meeting bright eyes that crinkled just slightly in the corners. “Damnit Peril,” laughter shook his frame, “only my mother calls me Napoleon.”

He wrapped his hand around Solo’s straining cock, rubbed languidly through the practical puddle of moisture pooling at the head before following a vein down the other man’s shaft with his thumb. The startled moan of pleasure that filled the room was enough to make him feel vindicated, “I would think your mother does not touch you this way Да?”

“Christ!” The sharp line of Solo’s jaw tightened, Ilya watched Solo rock into his fist helplessly, “Why are we talking about my mother?”

“I am just telling you,” Ilya moved his hand languidly his free palm pressing down firmly on Solo’s stomach to keep him from moving, “that if I call you Napoleon,” another firm squeeze followed by a breathy moan, “you should know that I am not your mother.”

Solo tightened his fingers in Ilya’s hair dangerously, hissing out obscenities and impotent threats from between clenched teeth. Ilya pressed his mouth to Solo’s, cutting off the sound as he dragged his teeth and tongue over the other man’s lips.

Ilya took pity on him, he’d have many more nights and days to torment his cowboy. For now, under the cover of darkness, he was content to wring out every bit of noise and plea he could from the normally stoic man.

Ilya held Solo’s hips firmly in place, easily overpowering the smaller man, and dragged his tongue up the underside of Solo’s cock. He followed a slick trail of precome from the base all the way to the tip where he took the time to swirl his tongue around the crown indulgently.

Solo’s moans caught with every breath he took, his hair tightening impotently in Ilya’s hair as he took his time taking the cowboy apart with his mouth.

Ilya kept his eyes locked with Solo’s, reaching out blindly for the little tube of oil the other man had so graciously brought with him when Ilya had demanded his company that night.

“What do you think Napoleon?” This time the other man’s name on Ilya’s lips caused Solo’s pupils to dilate. Ilya slicked his fingers thoroughly reaching behind himself and dragged his tongue over Solo’s straining cock as he pushed two fingers into himself slowly, “Can you last long enough to take me?”

The other man groaned his assent, fingers digging into Ilyas hips when he straddled Solo’s hips eagerly.

The burn and press of Solo’s cock filling him was nearly maddening. The only thing that stopped him from bottoming out too soon was the years of patience forced under his skin.

Ilya could take his time. The two of them had all night to know each other.

Solo, bless his American heart, was nowhere near as patient as Ilya. As soon as he gained the leverage he flipped the two of them, pressing Ilya firmly into the mattress as he took what he wanted with long, even thrusts.

Ilya had never begged for anything in his life. Not for his father, or his mother or any of the things he’d ever held dear. But the slow press of Solo’s cock against his prostate, the sharp sting of the other man’s teeth on his skin was almost enough to drive him to beg.

For what he didn’t know.

They came together almost violently, the pent-up force of their feelings released between their bodies and dripped out onto the sheets messily.

Ilya held Solo tight in the aftermath, large hands roaming over soft flesh, callouses dragging and pulling softly. It was only as Ilya himself was falling asleep that he noticed: Solo was only halfway on the bed. His back was flush to Ilya’s front, but his legs and part of his torso hung off the bed, trusting in the strength of Ilya’s arms to keep him secure.

Ilya smiled fondly (lovingly really but who needed to know) because even when Solo tried to, he could barely make it to a bed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! Thank you so much for reading this, I really hope you enjoyed it!   
> If you want to see more of my work you can follow me here on Ao3 or check me out on Tumblr at https://hel-be-praised.tumblr.com/ .


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